


Little and Big

by Lil-Ol-Cricket-Bug (LoxleyAndBagell)



Series: College AU [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: College AU, Crack, Like Whoa, M/M, Prolly why Marius ain't there, grantaire might want to reconsider that studio art major, last year was just terrible for these kids, pet therapy day is the best, prouvaire has a fairly gruesome sense of humor, tiny!bahorel is a wonderful figurehead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 05:11:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3369065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoxleyAndBagell/pseuds/Lil-Ol-Cricket-Bug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a Very Important Event</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little and Big

Enjolras reviewed his notes. “Okay, so Bahorel is going to make that meeting with Lamarque about reserving the commons, Feuilly is going to see Grantaire about acquiring poster supplies, and I’m sending Bossuet that rough-draft of the petition to send to Student Counsel before eight. Sound good?”

“Sounds good,” affirmed Combeferre, making ready to stand and leave the meeting room, until Courfeyrac caught his sleeve and cast Enjolras a stern look, saying, “Before we go, while we’re all here, I think we need to make some plans regarding tomorrow.”

No sooner had he mentioned the word “tomorrow,” then the rest of the club slowly returned to their seats, expressions gone serious as they dug out their phones or notebooks to check their calendars.

“When I asked about meeting with Lamarque at the information desk, they told me it was three tomorrow, on the field,” said Bahorel seriously. “It’s only until a quarter-past four this semester.”

“I can’t believe that!” cried Joly. “That’s hardly any time at all! It’s a travesty!”

Prouvaire wrinkled their nose at their phone. “Well, if it’s in the field, I suppose that makes sense; tomorrow may be the last good day for it, and that post-class window is when everybody will be out. Besides, the days are getting so short, I wouldn’t want to sit around in the dark.”

“Why couldn’t it have been on a Saturday?” groaned Laigle. “It’s stupid to put it on a Wednesday. If they did it on Saturday, they could be here all day, and—“

“And be snowed out? I don’t think anybody would like that,” said Prouvaire, handing Laigle their phone, showing him the forecast. “Tomorrow’s going to be the last good day we may have for the rest of the year.”

“Cheery,” murmured Combeferre as Laigle studied the screen, his escalating distress making itself known in a high-pitched little whine.

“That still doesn’t explain why they couldn’t just have it indoors,” Feuilly piped up, “just in favor of Laigle’s proposition, for the weekend. Everyone could be inside, nice and warm, for a longer period of time. It’d be much better than sitting outside on a beautiful day for such a short window of time.”

Prouvaire shrugged. “Maybe. But from an owner’s perspective, I can promise you that being cooped up in a strange place, a strange indoors place, can be trying on everyone’s nerves, especially for such a long time. And if it was inside, they probably couldn’t get as many to come as they could to an outside event.”

There was a general murmur of understanding from the group, as Prouvaire smiled victoriously, saying, “again, I speak from experience.”

Combeferre raised an eyebrow. “Nobody doubts your extensive experience, Jehan, but be fair—Babou qualifies more as a Trial By Fire than Experience.”

Prouvaire shrugged. “So I’m prepared for the worst-case scenario. It’s a point in my favor.”

“Your version of ‘worst case scenario’ and the rest of humanity’s are wildly different things,” said Combeferre.

“That’s the wonderful thing, though,” Enjolras interrupted, “in all of us knowing one another—if Prouvaire is prepared, that’s a point in our favor. And if not, well, we already had it established that they are to be protected at all costs.”

Prouvaire lovingly flipped him the bird. Enjolras laughed and asked, “When does class let out for everyone? Still two-thirty?”

It still was.

“Excellent. I propose meeting outside the commons, front door, at a quarter-til. Give us some time to drop off whatever needs dropping off before walking down. Good?”

It was.

“Cool. See you then. Feuilly?”

“Yeah?”

Enjolras lightly scratched the back of his hand. “Will you make sure Grantaire knows, if he doesn’t already? Tell him where we’ll be?”

Feuilly smiled when he couldn’t hold Enjolras’ eyes. “Sure thing.”

“All right,” said Enjolras quickly. “Meeting adjourned.”

 

The studio art building had originally served as the library when it was constructed in the nineteenth century, and retained the severe, red-brick façade, the front entrance adorned with concrete pillars, topped with Corinthian leaves. A motto in church latin (at least, that was how Prouvaire and Grantaire had defined it with generous eye-rolling) loomed down from the stone header, framed by grimacing masks.

When it had become a gym in the seventies, the windows had been bricked up with heavy concrete blocks, clashing badly with the red bricks of the original building. Feuilly had been inside enough times to not be intimidated by the eerie vastness, the way the place seemed to stretch on forever without hallways or walls, only naked stairs leading up to the two levels of studios.

In the nineties, a new gym was built, and the studio art department laid claim to the building, and spent a fortune on transforming locker room spaces and weight rooms into studio spaces and classrooms. They took away the rubber floors and padding on the walls, leaving the building even more cavernous and sparse, so no whisper went unheard, no footstep unannounced. Feuilly had been convinced it was haunted his first year, and it held a similar fascination over the freshmen this year.

Today, Feuilly looked up at it with a sort of disgruntled fondness as Freaks blared from the building, loud enough that the building’s bizarre acoustics carried the noise all the way to the Commons, where he had come from.

The noise was even more incredible in the building. Feuilly sent a text to Grantaire, though he was in perfect view, sitting in the back of the basketball court, hunched over his most recent project, broad shoulders grooving to the music.

need someone to slam some kiln doors shut or have you got that under control?

Not a moment later, Grantaire checked his phone, then looked up to grin crookedly at Feuilly. He reached over turned the volume down dramatically, calling, “Wrong medium and you know it. Did you bring coffee?”

“Better,” Feuilly called back, walking to him.

“Cocoa? Chai? Irish coffee? Irish coffee, sans coffee?”

“Settle down,” Feuilly laughed, halting before he could get another foot closer to Grantaire’s work on the floor, letting his friend come to him, arms stretched forth. Grantaire did not embrace him, but clapped his large hands firmly on Feuilly’s shoulders, smiling brightly at him, wide enough that his missing teeth were visible.

“You wound me,” Feuilly teased, taking Grantaire’s shoulders in return. “I put on cologne for you and everything.”

“Next time,” Grantaire chid. “I’m a sweaty fuckin’ mess, and if I hugged you now, my back might go out. I already did a number standing up to greet you.”

“You couldn’t prop it up on an easel or something?”

“They dry better like this. I don’t want my tiles sliding the fuck everywhere.”

“Make an art movement; tile mosaics a la Picasso.”

“You missed your calling. The engineering department’s gain is the art department’s grievous loss. Now, what’s so miraculous that you call the great blasphemy of naming it better than Irish Coffee?”

Remembering Enjolras’ fingers, Feuilly smiled. “What are you doing at three tomorrow?”

Grantaire shrugged good-naturedly. “Probably working here.”

“Don’t you have studio time on Wednesdays?”

“Yeah, but I’m not going to finish the stupid border in the two hours I get tomorrow.”

Feuilly nodded sagely. “Good. I’ll tell the others you’re coming.”

Grantaire frowned. “What’s this, now?”

“You need a break. You’re taking one tomorrow, at three.”

“Says who!” Grantaire released Feuilly, turning around to skulk back to his mosaic.

“Says you,” grinned Feuilly. “In another fifteen seconds, after I tell you how Enjolras was really wanting you to come along.”

“That was, like, three seconds,” said Grantaire, raising an eyebrow.

“How he was really pretty damn anxious about asking me to make sure you knew.”

“Eight seconds. Big whoop. He won’t miss me.”

“How he couldn’t look me in the eye and did the Hand Thing when he asked me to pass the message along to you.”

Grantaire looked stunned. A second passed, then two, and he looked at his feet and muttered, “fuck.”

Feuilly grinned. “I know you, man.”

Grantaire’s hands hooked on the back of his neck, pressing, holding his head down. “Fuck.”

“Are you gonna be there?” Feuilly asked.

Grantaire’s head snapped up, his pop-eyed gaze distressed. “Seriously. Fuck you, man.”

Feuilly grinned at his lost tone, walking back to the doors. “We’re meeting a quarter to three at the front of the commons. If you can’t meet us there, walk in the direction of the field. Text me if you can’t find us.”

He heard one last desperate “fuck” before he closed the door on his friend.

 

The way Grantaire saw it, he had two options:

He could continue to stand here, all alone, in front of the Commons like a boob, or

He could go to the Smoker’s Bench off-campus, text Feuilly that he would be walking to the field by himself, and then shrug off not being able to find them and apologize to Feuily later if he brought it up, or Joly and Bossuet if they asked. They’d be cool about it, and if Joly pushed it, he’d say he got caught up. It wasn’t a big deal. They were cool about his No-Show tendencies. They were used to his bullshit at this point. And if Enjolras asked—

He ducked his head under the pretense of checking his phone, wrinkling his nose as if that would excuse the way his mouth was twisting at the corner.

Enjolras wouldn’t ask, of course. That would be too much. Just because he’d had Feuilly deliver an extended invitation didn’t mean he’d be devastated if Grantaire failed to show, even if he’d asked while doing the hand thing, for fuck’s sake.

Grantaire quickly typed a text to himself; maybe he looked like he was typing something so witty and charming he had to smirk at his own brilliance. It was a long string of text, _get over yourself jaysus but you’re embarrassing settle down or you’re going home right now immediately holy shit would enjolras know what was going on if you muttered Bullshit at any given opportuni_

“Ahoy!”

His head shot up, and he laughed as he snapped his phone shut, calling back to Bahorel, “Hairy Baby! You brought a parade!”

The small parade, swiftly approaching, was headed by Courfeyrac carrying Bahorel upon his back. “We’re a ship,” Bahorel corrected, hollering over Courfeyrac’s head. “I’m the figurehead.”

Grantaire snorted, putting his phone in his pocket and walking towards them. “What’s the ship name, if you’re the figurehead? The Leprechaun?”

“Fuck you, I’m the most beautiful selkie you ever did see,” Bahorel sniffed daintily, turning his head away disdainfully.

“Aw, is he getting crabby?” Grantaire teased, then asked Courfeyrac, “need me to take him?”

Courfeyrac adjusted his passenger on his back. “He’s not heavy at all, and all that spite is just hot steam. Besides, I’m navigating.”

“Aye aye,” said Grantaire. “Need a rudder?”

“Nah,” said Bahorel, apparently having forgiven Grantaire. “Actually, if you want to continue to keep us in business, we could really use a passenger.”

“Ooh,” laughed Grantaire, falling into step with them, finding Laigle and Joly. “Fruity drinks and shuffleboard?”

“Nope,” said Laigle, “just speed.”

Grantaire’s eyebrows leaped nearly to his hairline, his expression clownishly eager. Laigle frowned, confused, until Joly coughed, “phrasing” pointedly.

“Oh shit,” Laigle yelped, realizing in horror what he’d said. “Oh shit. No, nonono, we’re not selling drugs, that’s not—“

“So that’s where we’re going?” Grantaire asked gleefully, over his friend’s protests. “Drugs in the football field? Now this is how you run an effective operation! Whose idea was this? Feuilly? Have I finally had an effect on you?”

Feuilly was walking behind him, and landed a harmless kick to Grantaire’s rear as he laughed, “Fucking hell, this is why I can’t take you anywhere.”

Once Grantaire had righted himself, he bared all his teeth at Feuilly in his most shit-eating grin. “There, there, Fish-Wrapper, it’s just two more months until you can slither out of my embarrassing clutches. Besides,” he added, not looking at Enjolras, “I was invited.”

 

Initially, he thought he’d been imagining things. It wasn’t like he and Grantaire had much in common, anyhow, or had much excuse to interact, but no, four blocks had proved he was very much correct: Grantaire wasn’t walking right.

Enjolras had lived in a household full of tall people, of whom he was the shortest. This didn’t mean much, that he knew—anyone six foot or over was average height as far as he was concerned, and it turned out that all but two of his friends were “below average” next to him. Prouvaire was familiar territory, lofty enough that Enjolras had to tilt his head up slightly to talk to him, and Grantaire was smaller than him by but a hair, but still a “usual” height for Enjolras.

Enjolras’ ideas of “usual” were skewed, he knew this. The ailments that went with “usual” were easy for him to recognize, as well.

Grantaire would be dwarfed by Enjolras’ father, this he knew, but still the artist was walking very much like the old sinner—spine rod straight as if any other way would snap him in half, with shoulders held unnaturally tense in an attempt to relieve any more pressure on the spine.

He felt a smack to his hand. His eyes darted over to look at Combeferre, and he did his best to look wounded. Before he could complain, Combeferre wordlessly tugged his right hand away from where it had been scratching at the left until it was red and stuffed it into Enjolras’ jeans pocket.

“You’ve been away a while, Grantaire,” Combeferre pointed out. “What’s been going on?”

Grantaire looked a little startled, eyes wide as he tilted his head to look back at Combeferre, darting in quick bursts at Enjolras.

“Oh. Yeah, this new project I’m working on is eating up all my time,” he replied.

“Visual art, right?” asked Combeferre.

“Yeah, mosaic.” Grantaire’s laugh was a bitter sound as he scratched the back of his neck. “Next time I get to choose the medium, tell me to sit my ass down and learn how to use a fucking digital tablet.”

“Not crying ‘witchcraft’ anymore?” Joly teased.

Grantaire laughed, gesturing vaguely to his back. “Well, my back is certainly making a case in favor of that Devil’s Work. If I can make my art from an armchair with lumbar support, preferably a spinny one, I will be a happy amphibian.”

“You’ll have to let us see it now,” said Prouvaire serenely. “You can’t keep us from seeing your back-breaking labor anymore.”

“Nope,” said Grantaire, popping the end of the word. “If I don’t tell you when or where the show is, you can’t find it.”

“Unless I tell them,” Feuilly added.

“Which you won’t, because I know all your bad habits from Freshman year.”

Feuilly conceded the point, shrugging at Enjolras.

Enjolras supposed now that he had to say something to lord over Grantaire, something that would compel him to continue this. There were several problems with that—besides his natural qualms over intentionally antagonizing an injured person, it was not going to do him any favors to push a subject Grantaire was not willing to pursue. And considering the shit storm that was the last two years in terms of their interactions, and how fragile the ground seemed between them now, and the fact that these non-confrontational interactions with Grantaire were still such a delicacy, he really couldn’t find any reason to play the Friendly Asshole role that came so easily to the rest of his—their friends.

“What are you making?” he asked.

Grantaire looked startled, twisting his neck as if to see if Enjolras had really said something to him. His face was in profile, one bulging eye fixed on Enjolras, then the corner of his mouth turned upwards slowly.

“Trust me, it’s really nothing anybody would be interested in,” he assured Enjolras. “No b—“

He cut himself off there quickly, clearing his throat and looking suddenly guilty.

Well, that wasn’t going to work. “Why does it need to be in mosaic?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire had to duck his head at that, laughing at himself as Feuilly groused, “because he’s a fucking asshole who thinks he’s so goddamn funny, but he’s really—“

“You know what it is?” Prouvaire cut him off, delighted. “What is it?”

“He can’t,” Grantaire protested over the clamor and commotion directed at Feuilly. “His kneecaps are ransom if he tells, I swear, think of the poor baby kneecaps.”

“Llama-ho!” Bahorel bellowed over them. “Shut up, plebs, llama-ho!”

Grantaire frowned. “Land?”

“Nope, llama,” Bahorel confirmed, squirming in Courfeyrac’s grip. “Lemme down, you galoot, there’s Davey, I gotta go right now immediately.”

“It’s Davey?” Courfeyrac shrieked before racing towards the field, full-throttle, Bahorel’s own screams fading the further they got.

With them out of the way of his line of vision, Enjolras could get a better look at the field, and sure enough, there was the rust-colored llama grazing at the grass disinterestedly next to where his owner sat beside a black hog, cradling what appeared to be a piglet.

The group quickly broke apart after Bahorel and Courfeyrac’s departure, Prouvaire dragging Combeferre off in the direction of the piglet, and Feuilly abandoning them for the game of Frisbee that was currently in session with a collie with a service vest.

“Jesus,” Grantaire exhaled, sounding awed at the sight.

“I love Pet Therapy Day, too,” said Laigle. “I suppose it’s not a bad idea they got the field, after all. It’s nice to see them all running around like this.”

“Are the cats here?” Joly asked. “Are those them over by the… touchdown thing?”

“The goalpost? Yeah, yeah they are,” Laigle confirmed.

“Great, that’s where I’ll be. You?”

“I’ll follow. I took my meds today, I should be good. Grantaire? Enjolras? Where will you guys be?”

Enjolras replied, “I’ll probably end up by the llama and pig.”

Grantaire only looked stunned.

“You okay there?” asked Bossuet.

Grantaire opened and closed his mouth a few times before managing to ask, eyes wide and lost, “how long has this been going on?”

Joly frowned. “It should have started just now. What—“

“No, no,” Grantaire shook his head. “I mean—this,” he gestured with his arms. “How long has this been—“

“Pet Therapy Day?” Laigle supplied. “A while, have you never been to one?”

Grantaire shook his head wordlessly.

Laigle and Joly couldn’t have looked more offended if you told them monogamy was the natural order of the world.

Laigle recovered first. “Well, the cats are over there by the goalpost, they’re from the local Rescue. They’re real sweet, but real jittery around people still, this is a way they get them used to people again. Dogs over thereabout, looks like that collie is the only one super into playing around. They’re service dogs, and most of them are super docile and pretty old. Annnnnd usually there’s a snake, but it’s probably too cold outside for him today, but that llama is Davey, and I don’t know a damn thing about that pig and the piglet. Where do you wanna go?”

Grantaire made a noise like a kettle.

“Cats,” Joly decided. “You can lie down, and they can walk all over you. Sound good?”

Grantaire looked close to tears.

“Cool. Come on,” said Joly, starting off towards the cats, pulling Laigle behind him. “Enjolras,” he called over his shoulder, “we’re gonna find you by Davey?”

Enjolras considered as he made his way to the field, still caught up in glimpses of Grantaire’s bewildered face, taking in every inch of the field possible, from where Feuilly was playfully pulling at the Frisbee in the collie’s jaws, to where Bahorel and Courfeyrac were petting the llama and Prouvaire sat holding the tiny piglet in their lap as Combeferre petted the hog’s back.

“Actually,” he said, “I think I’ll go with you and see the cats. I didn’t see them much last time.”

 

“And this little piggie went to market, and this little piggie stayed home…”

“Considering there are two ‘piggies’ on the end of each leg, Prouvaire, I think you’ll want to reconsider the game.”

“There are eight little piggies altogether on this little piggie, and I intend to make them count, Combeferre. This little piggie had roast beef, and this little piggie had none…”

“You used up all your piggies.”

“I’ll have to come up with some more. This little piggie told Combeferre to have a smoke and settle down, and this little piggie—“

“Rude.”

“—this little piggie said ‘Look Over By the Cats, Enjolras and Grantaire Certainly Have a Better Grip Than Combeferre of the Somberness to be Maintained in the Presence of Little Piggies.’ And this little piggie went Wee Wee Wee All the way home.”

“Huh. Either Enjolras is re-enacting the execution of Giles Corey, with Grantaire as Corey and the cats as stones, or… well, something far more sinister is occurring. And you Wee Wee Wee’d too early. There’s still one more little piggie left on that little piggie.”

“And this little piggie was eaten by Babou in one gulp. The end.”

“Good lord, Prouvaire. The piggie’s mother is right here.”

“One gulp, but lots of little bites because piggie’s so scrumdiddlyumptuous. Yes yes yes. Just like this: numnumnumnum. Just like that. Snort snort.”


End file.
